Growing Escargot

In my very first garden, I grew escargot. Certainly nothing culinary or anything you’d ever want to sauté in butter – I like to say I grew just plain old slugs, slugs wearing seashells on their backs. They arrived, uninvited, to a small patch of earth I had claimed on the island of Guam, where I had optimistically planted some vegetables behind our military housing.

There I was, freshly married to a young man in the Coast Guard, away from everything and everyone I’d ever known – really missing my mother and my mother’s garden. So in that very first garden of my life, when I still believed that enthusiasm alone could sustain all my endeavors, I planted my little mail-order seeds into the sandy soil and soon, I thought, had developed a delightful little square of country, right there in the tropics. All my rows neatly marked with the seed packets turned upside down on bamboo stakes; my scarecrow, resplendent in his military garb and pith helmet, adorning my efforts.

Well, the brutal tropical heat and daily rains took the color from the seed packets immediately – which seemed to mock my efforts right away. But, I’ll tell you, with the hot sun blazing on the moist ground morning and afternoon, sure enough, stuff actually grew! As I recall, things sort of exploded from the ground – lettuce came up really fast; the beans were like magic, they curly-cued up and out – and before long, I had squash leaves the size of tiny umbrellas. I may be dreaming it differently than it happened, but I remember everything looking great for about three weeks.

Until the snails came.

When I looked out there that morning, at first, it looked as though someone had thrown a quilt made of seashells on the ground - until I realized with horror that it was hundreds, literally hundreds of snails, clinging to (and sucking in satisfaction) on my fledgling zucchini plants, my corn, and the onions - even the scarecrow! I’ll never forget how embarrassed I was when I realized my foolishness in trying to grow a vegetable garden where no one else does.

Oh my, how that first garden from those many years ago is still with me as I take my morning walk through the flowers and vegetables I grow today. And when I take time to reflect on one of the many adventures with Mother Nature that I’ve had - I can, sometimes, with the pinpoint accuracy of hindsight - match it to a checkpoint in my life, to a time when perhaps I experienced some growth myself. Starting with that young girl who was determined to turn the tide of vegetation on a Pacific island, and who was just as determined to blindly begin a future without the roots to sustain it – many of my gardens seem to have run parallel to my life’s events.

So what lesson did I learn in my island garden? Pay attention to my surroundings. Maybe the wisdom of looking - and learning - before I leap.

After we were transferred stateside, another garden took shape. Only this time the California weather, and soil, were ideal and everything thrived as I waited for my daughter to be born. Once new motherhood arrived the garden was the first thing to go as my days filled with the never-ending care of an infant and battling those overwhelming feelings of inadequacy most new mothers experience. As I stumbled through those first few months, I can remember mournfully worrying how I was ever going to be a good parent if I couldn’t even keep a garden alive.

Maybe that’s when I learned I could prioritize. Temper my worries. Decide what is important. Grow what I can, when I can.

It was probably learning also to trust my abilities - perhaps the most valuable lesson ever learned - that helped me during a period a few years later, when I struggled to find a new life for my daughter and me. While leaving bits and pieces of our old one behind, I tried to establish continuity for us with a garden - each rental house benefiting from some bulbs buried or a start of mint planted. To establish that we’d been there, at least for a little while, until we found where we were supposed to be.

Within these many experiences, I’ve also come to note that often my garden reflects my life at that very moment. Sometimes it’s in straight rows, neatly arranged just the way it needs to be found – at the same time that I have other things in great order. And sometimes we’re both a little overgrown – neither of us getting the kind of care and attention we need.

Sometimes I’ve been challenged to bloom where I didn’t want to be planted and had to acknowledge the growing odds of that happening. And sometimes my mistakes are right out there for everyone to see – like hundreds of snails lying asleep in the morning sun after having feasted through the night.

More than once, my garden has provided a means of survival. I remember one summer, when my daughter was struggling to step through that doorway to adolescence, and I found myself out the back door and into my garden with great regularity – a safe place to be during a painful confrontation between a mother and daughter. And in my garden, I would hoe with great intensity, my thoughts somewhere else. Or plant another round of onions sets. Or prune - oh boy - would I ever prune! Everything thrived that particular summer, including my relationship with my daughter, partly because of a rule that still applies today: no one is allowed to raise their voice in my garden.

Last year, my daughter was married in that garden – and another lesson from it was revealed to me. The winter before had been brutal, and had ravaged some pretty significant areas - and I was feeling overwhelmed by the impending festivities and how much there was to be done. When, on a beautiful late spring day, I experienced the surprise arrival of more than a dozen people - Master Gardeners all - favorite gardening tools in hand, spreading out and joyfully, swiftly and accurately going to work tidying up my garden. They cleaned out areas I could have only dreamed of getting to, and gave me a head start to complete the rest of my planting list.

What did I learn in my garden that day? To let go, to let something happen with love, and to hold strong in my heart how lucky a person is to have friends.

Many days, I find myself reflecting on where my gardens have taken me and how I try to live by what they’ve taught me. We have shifted and settled, the plants and I, our roots run deep now from years of cultivation. If I could give my daughter advice on how to make the gardens of her future grow, I’d say it’s always hard work – and be thankful for that. And there will probably be some real buckets of snails to shovel on occasion. Just learn to firmly plant your decisions and don’t forget to drink in the sweetness of your successes. And remember to always laugh, dust yourself off and learn from your mistakes – because that’s the key to growing right along with your garden.

And know that, sometimes, all you ever need is a little sun, a little faith, and a few friends to help you weed through what is important.